Two women dressed in ostentatiously flowing gowns danced across the boards, as a fiddler standing beside the stage played a melancholy air that plucked the heartstrings. They did not dance with one another as such, but swept and span around each other in a dizzying display of agility and elegance.
A man of astonishing height staggered onto the stage, wearing a long coat reaching almost to his ankles. Another, equally tall man entered from the opposite side, whereupon the first collapsed to the ground, revealing himself to actually be three dwarves standing upon each other’s shoulders. As far as Raven could tell, the dwarves were supposed to have stolen the man’s coat and he was attempting to retrieve it. The four of them engaged in all manner of pratfalls and tumbles about the stage, the former in particular performing impressive cartwheels and somersaults as they evaded the tall man’s grasp. The audience howled with laughter throughout the act, though Raven thought the spectacle tiresome.
She was growing tired of the revels when there was another great crash of cymbals, an explosion of smoke, and the harlequin once again stood upon the stage. This time, he bowed deeply to the audience, tearing away the mask as he straightened. Beneath it was a young man of exotic appearance, the complexion darker than was typical for the Empire. As he thanked those assembled for attending the show, several of his fellows appeared clutching hats, into which the audience obligingly dropped coins. Before she could turn aside, a gaily-dressed woman appeared at Raven’s elbow and jangled a cap under her nose. Raven frowned, but dipped inside her coin-purse and fished out a few coppers.
By the time the show finished night had fallen and Raven followed the chattering villagers as they made their way back to the town. The crowd thinned as people drifted away towards their homes, but Raven made her way across the by now deserted square to the inn.
Inside it was far busier than it had been the last time she’d seen it. Nearly every table was filled with men of all ages, their faces lit by the glow of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The air was filled with the sound of raised voices; the background rumble of dozens of conversations blending together, interspersed with shouts rising over the hubbub and occasionally pierced by bursts of raucous laughter. A pall of smoke hung over the room, almost entirely obscuring the ceiling, and through the haze she saw the burly figure of the innkeeper bustling through the throng carrying a tray crowded with foaming tankards.
On the walk back, she’d thought to go directly to her room and avoid another encounter with the innkeeper, but upon entering a tantalising aroma of food reached her nostrils, which immediately set her stomach growling like a caged beast. She’d not eaten a proper meal since the previous night, when she and Conall had camped beside the road from Strathearn. Was that only yesterday? she wondered, incredulous.
She fought her way through the crowd, feeling like she was swimming upstream. At one point the toe of her boot caught against someone’s foot, which would have sent her sprawling had she not been so hemmed on all sides by other bodies.
As she went, she felt eyes on her once again. Perhaps because of her stumble, but she wondered whether there was anything else behind those looks. How many of the men here saw what happened earlier? she thought. And how many others have they told of it?
She reached the bar without further incident, arriving in time to catch the innkeeper before he dove back into the crowd. He looked up briefly from filling another batch of flagons and regarded her coolly. “Back again?”
Raven looked past his shoulder to a doorway behind. It was from here the aroma originated, and from beyond came the sounds of someone busying themselves in the kitchen. The beast in her belly growled and gurgled. “You serve food?”
“Aye, Ginny’s got something cooking on the stove,” he said. “Not sure what, but I’ll be having whatever’s left of it tonight after I close.”
“How much?”
“Two... that is, three coppers,” he said.
As hungry as she was, Raven was appalled. A meal at an expensive hostelry in Ehrenburg’s mercantile quarter wouldn’t set you back much more. “That much?”
The innkeeper smiled coldly. “Call it the out-of-town price,” he said.
Feeling keenly the lightness of her coin-purse, Raven reluctantly drew out the required amount. Another day like today and she’d be penniless.
Coins in hand, the innkeeper disappeared through the doorway and emerged a few moments later with a wooden bowl, the contents of which steamed enticingly. He’d also apparently had a small attack of conscience, as rising from the bowl like an iceberg floating in the seas of the frozen north was a large hunk of bread.
She thanked him and carried the bowl over to a table with an empty chair, taking extra care not to trip over any more feet lest she spill her costly cargo.
The aroma turned out to belong to a thick cabbage, potato and leek pottage, and Raven had barely set the bowl down before she began spooning it eagerly into her mouth. The bread, too, was soft and still hot from the oven. She tore off small chunks one at a time, dipping it into the broth and savouring both. It was good, hearty fare and she felt it warming her from the inside.
In a disappointingly brief time it was gone. She was peering disconsolately down at the droplets at the bottom of the bowl, when someone flopped into the seat next to hers.
It was the smell she noticed first. No sooner had the figure sat down with an asthmatic wheeze and creaking of joints than it hit her. It hung around him in a haze; the reek of an old mattress that had been stored too long in a damp cellar.
She glanced up into a face resembling the offspring of a gorse bush and a weasel. Rodent-like eyes glittered from the midst of a face mostly hidden beneath a bristling grey beard. As her gaze met his, the latter parted in what was clearly intended as a friendly smile, but which instead called to mind the look that might appear on the face of a fox upon discovering the door to the henhouse had been left carelessly open. She was instantly wary.
“Pretty little thing like ye shouldn’t be out all alone.” There was a wheedling edge to the man’s voice. “Plenty o’ bad’uns ‘round these parts.”
“You don’t say.” The knuckles of her hand still holding the spoon turned white.
“Aye, lassie, ‘tis true.” The smile widened into an oily leer. “Dinna worry yersel’, though. Auld Dirk’ll look after ye.”
She froze as the man inched closer. “I heard ye’re planning on heading east tomorrer.”
Raven shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Maybe. But probably not. There’s more work down south, I hear.”
“Could be, could be,” the man said, nodding. “Hard times all over, though. More’n more taking to the road to prey on unwary travellers. None’d dare come near ye with Dirk around. Makes no difference to me where ye’re headed. I’ll keep ye safe.”
The man leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. The other landed on her knee. “Keep ye warm at night, too,” he murmured, so close now she could feel the moist warmth of his breath on her cheek. A crawling sensation pricked at her skin as the hand slid up her thigh.
Raven said nothing. Her free hand snaked down to her belt and fastened around the handle of the dagger hanging there. In a flash of steel she drew it from its sheath, raised it high and stabbed it down between the man’s second and third fingers, burying the point deep in the wooden tabletop with a loud thunk. The edge of the blade was so close to the V of flesh between the fingers it had drawn a red line that bloomed with bright red blood.
The man’s eyes bulged from their sockets, as a strangled, spluttering sound escaped his lips. “The next time I see you, I won’t miss,” Raven hissed, still gripping the dagger’s handle.
To the man’s credit, he recovered quickly from the shock. He snarled and fumbled at the well-worn scabbard hanging from his own belt. But before he could draw his weapon, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder.
“Not in here, you old letch.” The innkeeper loomed over the table. Then with a grunt of effort he hauled the wease
lly man from his seat.
The man spat and cursed as he was dragged across the floor towards the door. His eyes alighted on Raven once more. “Fucken bitch!” he screeched. “Maccallam whore! I’ll get ye back for this, see if I don’t!”
The burly innkeeper barged the door open and hurled him, howling, into the gathering gloom outside. There was a loud cheer from the other patrons, but looking around amidst the laughing faces Raven caught others staring at her with ill-disguised enmity.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up and saw the innkeeper, his face red and flustered. She opened her mouth to thank him, but the words died on her lips as he slammed his hand down on the table. When it withdrew, six dull brown coins stared up at her. “What-” she began.
“You too,” he said, interrupting her. “I let you stay against my better judgement, but I won’t have that sort of trouble-making in here. This is an honest establishment.”
There was laughter, and one voice called out, “Jos, you old rogue, it were only last week you were fighting people for coin over there in the corner.”
The innkeeper pretended he hadn’t heard. “Get going,” he told her. “There are no rooms for you here, nor ever likely to be. Take your money back. I won’t have it be said I’m a thief.”
Raven held his gaze as she pointedly tugged the dagger’s point from the tabletop, put it back in its sheath and scooped up the coins. Several barbed comments lined up on her tongue, but she found she felt no anger, only a weary resignation. “Your wife is a fine cook,” she said, climbing to her feet.
There was no need to push her way through the crowd this time. Silence had fallen over the inn’s main room and the patrons parted before her as she made her way to the door, every eye upon her.
When she left, she resisted the urge to look round. She’d kept her face purposely impassive, hiding the shame she felt at having been evicted, but didn’t know how long she could keep it up.
It was a shame. In different circumstances it would have been a nice place to stop for the night, and once again she would be sleeping on the hard ground. She might have resisted, but what was the point?
Once again she crossed the town square, this time in the direction the stable-hand had indicated earlier that day. Beyond the inn’s glow, the darkness was absolute. She walked briskly, hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. Most probably ‘Auld Dirk’ had retreated back to whatever den he called home to lick his wounds. Or, even if he did still prowl the village, intent on retribution, then dressed all in dark-coloured garments as she was they could probably pass right by one another and not realise.
Yet the wilds were filled with the corpses of those who put their faith in ‘probably’. In the unlikely event that trouble found Raven, it would not find her unprepared.
* * *
“I’m here for my horse.”
The careworn face peering at her anxiously through the crack in the door wrinkled in confusion. “At this hour?”
“I’m having to leave a bit sooner than planned.”
The stable-owner’s eyes looked her up and down, doubtless taking in the dark cloak, leather jerkin and the sword and dagger hanging from the belt, all of which would have set alarm bells ringing in his mind. Probably keenly aware that he himself wore nothing save a thin night-shirt and was unarmed he nodded. “Wait by the stable,” he said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” He closed the door in her face, though softly.
Raven crossed the yard of dry, hard-packed dirt, finding the stable with little difficulty even in the dark. A covered lantern hung next to the doorway of a long, low wooden building, from which came the soft whickering of horses. She waited a moment for the owner to emerge from his house, and when he failed to do so she shrugged and went inside.
The building interior was divided into half a dozen stalls, four of which were currently occupied. She made her way to the furthest stall, in the corner, where her own horse had been placed. Meara seemed happy enough and was currently nosing at a wooden rack that, she was gratified to see, had been filled with fresh hay. She patted the animal’s neck, noting that its coat had been well-brushed. At least one of us was made to feel welcome, she thought, with just a trace of bitterness.
The saddle had been removed and sat on a bar opposite the stall. Raven opened the flap of the nearest saddlebag to check its contents... not that there had been many to begin with.
“It’s all there,” said a voice. Raven turned and saw the stable-owner, this time clothed in shirt, tunic and dark breeches. Still no weapon, though. She wondered whether it was a show of trust or just to avoid antagonising the heavily armed stranger in their midst. “My family have tended this stable for fifty years, and not once had a customer complain about their belongings going missing.”
“Sorry, force of habit.”
The stable-owner was mollified. “Aye, I can understand that. You don’t know us, and plenty of bad people and crooks around these days.” He moved past her and took the saddle, then carried it over to the stall. “Fine animal,” he said as he placed it over Meara’s back and bent to fasten the girth. “A bit underfed, mind. Not that she’s the only one,” he added, his eyes flicking momentarily to Raven. “I suppose that when you’re on the road you have to take what you can get.”
“Sometimes not even that,” she said, which prompted a dry chuckle from the old man.
He stepped back from the animal. “All ready to go. Not sure why you’re taking off at this hour, but it ain’t my business.” He fumbled inside a pouch hanging from his belt, drew out a coin and offered it to her. “You paid for the night, but seeing as it’s hours yet till sunup I figure you’re owed some of this back.”
Raven waved it away. “Keep it, you’ve looked after her well.”
The stable-owner didn’t protest, and tucked the coin back into the pouch. “Aye, well, we do our best,” he muttered.
Raven took the bridle from its hook and, moving with practised ease, she put the bit between the animal’s teeth and slipped the rest over its head. It gave a last longing look at the hay rack as Raven led it out from the stall and into the yard.
“Fine looking animal,” the owner said again, half to himself, as he watched Raven swing up into the saddle. “What do you call her?”
“Meara.”
He laughed, then saw her face. “You’re serious? Don’t you know-”
Raven sighed. “I know.” She dug her heels into Meara’s flanks and steered her through the open gate. The last thing she heard before they were swallowed by the darkness was a bemused chuckle from behind.
* * *
Only one road passed through Firbank and beyond the stable it snaked west towards Caer Lys, a city of miners and hardened hill-folk nestled in a valley between two peaks of the Dragon’s Back.
It was the opposite direction to where Raven needed to go, so when the faint glow of the town was behind her she steered her horse off the track, plodding cautiously over the rough ground.
In the morning she could orientate herself better, but for now all Raven wanted to do was find a suitable place to camp for the night. The pine forest overlooking the town seemed a safe bet, being both fairly nearby and easy to find even in darkness. It hopefully also meant staying clear of Dirk or any of his cronies, who may be keeping watch on the road.
But the wilds had a way of making mock of even the best-laid plans.
The trees were dark silhouettes looming above her against the starry sky, when a flicker of light away to her left caught her eye. After a moment’s hesitation Raven coaxed Meara towards it, curious as to who else would make camp while so close to civilisation and the more comfortable options it afforded.
When they’d drawn close enough to be able to make out the shapes of figures gathered around the firelight, Raven dismounted and crept closer on foot. If they looked hostile, she wanted to be able to melt away into the darkness again without attracting their attention.
As well as snatches of conversation came the clatter of bowl
s. Some of the figures were moving around in the light, and there was something familiar about them. But it was only when she noticed the large, square shapes crouched beyond the firelight that she was able to place them. The covered carts, the proximity to the town without wanting to enter... it seemed the camp she’d stumbled across belonged to the same troupe of players she’d seen earlier.
It was a relief they weren’t hostile, and she’d be able to camp nearby herself without concern, but just as Raven turned to leave a voice rang out through the darkness. “Only little mice need creep in the night. Show yourself, friend, and share the warmth of our hearth.”
Sheepishly, Raven stood and made her way into the ring of light. She was at a loss for what to say, so stood awkwardly while the players regarded her curiously, some still holding their bowls, spoons halfway to their lips.
“Well, what do we have here? No mouse indeed, it seems.” It was the one who had called out. He climbed to his feet and Raven recognised him as the harlequin who had opened and closed the performance. Away from the stage he now wore an unremarkable shirt, brown jerkin and breeches in place of his colourful costume, but he alone of their group bore the exotic features of a stranger to their shores.
“Whoever it is will lose her pretty head if she goes sneaking up on people like that,” growled another.
The harlequin tutted. “Hush, Rook. Can’t you see that she’s one of us?”
The reaction that greeted these words was one of general confusion, not least from Raven herself. “I’m not a mummer,” she said, frowning.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But, unless I’m very much mistaken, you are...” he fluttered his fingers in her direction, somehow in that one motion summarising her features, her attire, all of her in fact, “... an outsider. And that’s an exclusive brotherhood of which we ourselves, and all others of our vocation, are proud members.”
“Don’t mind Zhao. Too in love with the sound of his own voice, that one.” The speaker was sat by the fire; a woman with long, golden hair. One of the pair of dancers, Raven thought, though close up she was much older than Raven would have guessed from the flowing grace of her movements on the stage. But her eyes were kind and shone with a youthful zest. “What’s your name, child?” she asked.
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